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4 



The Concert and 
Other Studies . . 



THE CONCERT AND 
OTHER STUDIES 



By R. D. JAMESON 



Published by 
WISCONSIN LITERARY MAGAZINE 



MADISON 
1917 









14 1317 



Copyright 1917 
By R. D. JAMESON 



DEDICATION 



To the Stranglers, to A. R. Hohlfeld, to Barry Cerf, and to those 
other spirits in and out of Stranglerdom, who make independent work at 
Wisconsin pleasant and possible, this work is dedicated. It may at 
first sight seem strange that so slight a book should be dedicated to so 
many names, each of which is worthy of a dedication in itself. And 
yet this little gift bears witness to the many years of friendship and of 
encouragement which these men have given, not only to me, but to others 
in Wisconsin who are interested in doing this kind of writing. So that, 
if the gift of these verses, unworthy as they are, can express to these 
men, the gratitude which we, who are trying to do writing, feel toward 
them, that gift will have served its purpose. 

It is useless to make apologies to our friends, for they understand our 
weaknesses and look beyond our faults to better things that may lie be- 
hind. And to the strangers that may become friends an apology is an 
admission of weakness and unworthy. Therefore I shall not explain the 
motives that lead me to publish these first verses ; but I shall submit them 
to friend and stranger alike, without apology or excuse, in the hope that 
whatever of good there may be in them may be remembered, and that 
what is bad, may be quickly forgotten. 

To you, who will accept this gift, once more, "Thanks, and good 
luck!" 

THE AUTHOR. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 



The Concert, 1 5 

The Prelude, 1 7 
Intermission, 18 
After the Concert, 1 9 
Later, 20 

The Heritage, 21 

Spring Fragments, 37 

The Rider, 39 

Two Songs from "The Year," 41 

Academic Figures, 43 
The Professors, 44 
The Poet Professor, 45 
The Rhetorician, 46 
The Aesthetician, 48 
Dr. Jeremiah Quiggs, 50 

"Sunset Point," 52 

A Sonnet to Free Rythm, 53 

Night, 54 

October, 55 

The Return, 56 

A Triangle, 57 

Autumn Fancy, 59 

Revolutionary Hymn, 60 

The Song of Death, 61 

Monotones, 64 

If Looks Could Kill, 67 

After the Storm, 68 

Truth is Beauty, 69 

Three Fragments, 71 



Translations and Imitations 
The Asra, 74 

The Lindentree Blossomed, 75 
You Pretty Fisher Maiden, 76 
Hymn, 77 
Let Go, 78 
Wiswamitra, 79 

Man stop sneering at the devil, 79 
Over the Moorland, 80 
Kiinstlergesang, 81 
Weltschmerz, 83 
Truth, 85 
Twilight of the Gods, 87 

Incidents of the Flood 
The Fiance, 90 
The Angel, 91 
The Haberdasher's Clerk, 92 
The Cigar Salesman, 93 
The Old Doctor, 94 
Yale '13, 95 



INTRODUCTION 



During the past few years there has been an eager group of men at the 
University of Wisconsin whose main interest has been the creation of all 
forms of imaginative literature. These men in connection with an 
equally eager group of women have been the animating force of the Wis- 
consin Literary Magazine. As elsewhere in America of late, here too, 
poetry has been the most absorbing interest. These men have written 
many verses and submitted them to vigorously frank criticism of their 
fellows. Yet no author has suffered the weight of the slightest intel- 
lectual intolerance. Each one has felt encouraged to develop and to 
express his own particular emotional reactions towards life. 

The work of Raymond D. Jameson which appears in this volume is 
some of the best produced under these stimulating conditions. It shows 
a sincere and veritable lyric impulse. Whether writing in the most law- 
less of free rhythms or in a sonnet protesting against its own grace, he 
rarely forgets that he is composing verbal music. This is sometimes 
achieved by the mere dropping of lovely syllables as in the fine first 
stanza of The Concert. 

Sound of oboe and of flute, 

Of clarionet and violin, 

Like spirits that have long been mute 

Finding a voice to whisper in 

Andantes, played cantabile 

With all the magic of wood-wind. 

Sometimes the song sings through metres nicely varied with the spirit of 
the singers, as in the highly original poem called A Triangle. And 



once or twice as in The Rider one is borne along by a kind of primitive 
rhythmic ardour which elsewhere rises to a wierd crescendo in lines like 

Singing prayers that the Teuton Gods 
Shouted in their big red beards 
In naive piety. 

The early poems in the more ambitious sequence, The Heritage, are a 
trifle disappointing because there the music is interrupted. In the last 
stanzas, however, the poet finds his voice anew and sings more thought- 
fully than elsewhere in the volume. 

Mr. Jameson would doubtless be the first to disclaim any attempt to 
convey a definite message in his verse. Like Richard Dehmel's volume 
this collection might be called Aber die Liebe. As in the German 
poet's work there is some of the brooding and curiosity of adolescence 
and some of the tortured happiness of a man's awakening to love. 
There is to me nothing to deplore in this preoccupation with love. 
Youth must write out from its great central emotion unless it is content 
to be merely imitative. And that Jameson rarely is, except consciously 
as when he composes those echoes of the Spoon River Anthology which 
he calls Incidents of the Flood. 

The reference made above to Dehmel is not quite adventitious, be- 
cause the poetic spirit of this volume is inherited more directly from Ger- 
man lyric poetry than from English. One catches remote suggestions 
of Liliencron and other recent German lyricists transmuted by the pecu- 
liar melancholy and wistfulness of Jameson's spirit, — perhaps only be- 
cause they all inherit from Goethe and Heine. 

Those qualities in these poems which promise most have been em- 
phasized in this sketch. The actual achievement is naturally not so great. 
There are many excellencies which one must hope this young poet will 
attain. He will doubtless discover the presence of the external world 
beyond the radius of his feeling and reveal it to his readers m more 
flashes of imaginative illumination than he now shows. His fancy will 
be less hampered by the stricter forms of verse and so he will be able 
to give his work more harmonious contours than it as yet displays. His 
more adult spirit, one feels, will find ardour in many more emotions than 
the one which now almost alone stirs it to expression Finally the fac- 



alty which he shows tentatively in The Heritage of seeing through his 
feelings to wide meanings of our human situation will become increasingly 
firm and clear. If Jameson's powers will but expand in these directions, 
he ought to produce work of permanent distinction. 

In the meantime it were ungracious to lament complete attainment in 
a first volume. Many of the qualities of an authentic minstrel, Jameson 
undubitably possesses, — the sensitive feeling for rhythm and cadence, 
the responsible thrill to experience and the insatiable impulse to com- 
municate it. This is more than craft and often proves to be the begin- 
ning of the insight and vision of the true poet. 

O. J. Campbell, Jr. 
University of Wisconsin 



THE CONCERT 



I 



Sound of oboe and of flute, 

Of clarionet and violin, 

Like spirits that have long been mute 

Finding a voice to whisper in . . . 

Andantes played cantabile 

With all the magic of wood-wind. 

And then I knew that you were mine — 

Forever and forever mine; 

That I had made you as men make 

All women that they love, by lake 

Or hill, or fireside, 

Leaving part you, and part beside 

What I thought you were and loved you for. 

And then I knew that you were mine — 

Forever and forever mine; 

That I had made you as men make 

The songs they sing by lake, 

Or hill, or fireside, 

A perfect thing of tone, and part beside, 

What they feel it is and love it for. • 

Sound of oboe and of flute, 

Of clarionet and violin, 

Like spirits that have long been mute 

Finding a voice to whisper in 

Andantes, played cantabile 

With all the magic of wood wind. 

17 



II 

INTERMISSION 

The music stopped. I saw you where you sat, 
Saw all you bought to be so pretty in — 
For his sake, not for mine — the lace, the ring, 
The newest gown, the pretty Paris hat, . . . 
I saw you speak to him, heard his sick blat 
Respond, saw him lean in whispering his answer . 
Lean close until his chin 
Brushed your dear curl, yes I saw even that! 

The lights went out and I was mad clear through; 
For then I knew you just for what you were — 
A perfect thing of tone was half; the other half 
Was female, female with a waist of blue, 
With lace, and things of tinsel and of fur . . . 
And when the lights went on, I heard you laugh. 



18 



Ill 

AFTER THE CONCERT 

You whispered to me as you passed, 

"Meet me when he leaves. I'll use 

The signal that I used the last 

Glad time we were together." 

Well, I waited in the cold and rain, 

Shivering, swearing, sick with pain 

At losing you, watching for the light 

That you would set in your doorway when he left; 

Loving, hating, sobbing in the night 

At my own impotence; imagining 

How you looked, and what you said, 

And what you did, and every other thing 

The sick imagination revels in. 

I slunk around the corner of a barn 

To shield me from the rain, and lit a pipe, 

And waited hours and hours, and still no light. 

•t* •*• •!• 

And then a flash fell in the night. 

I saw you draw the curtains back 

That I might see him there, and see your hair 

Fall on your half bared shoulders ; 

See him touch it to his lips, and see 

His eager fingers fumble . . . 

Then through wind and rain . . . 

You laughed! 



19 



IV 

LATER 

Again the oboe and the flute have sung 
Their old laments, like spirits that were still, 
And found a voice to whisper in, until 
The room was filled with cadence, and I sung 
A song I made for you when you were young. 
Again I saw you sitting tense and still, 
Clasping the chair to feel the cadence fill 
Your body with its whisperings far-flung 
Upon the heavy silence of the room. 

Again you heard the magic of wood wind; 

And I, half worshipping you, half 

Cursing the dim darkness of the room 

That hid your lips from me, thanked God, 

That when the lights flared on you did not laugh! 



20 



THE HERITAGE 



21 



I 



Open the windows. Let the air flow in. 
Gulping the coldness of the crystal, bright 
And sparkling air, let's bathe ourselves in light. 
Throw wide the windows and let life blow in. 
Come, let's forget our wisdom now, knowing 
That life is in the living, and that might 
Is but the spring of purity and right. 
Stand fast and firm and straight. Let light blow in. 

Short is the time that we may stand, dear heart, 
For soon the sun will slink behind a cloud, 
And cold we'll be, and half ashamed. We'll part 
To join the hurrying, frightened, shivering crowd. 
So let us now be what we are, dear heart, 
Until the world shall cover us like a shroud. 



23 



II 



Girl, standing so you seem to be a word 
Whose meaning I have not yet learned to know. 
I seem to see, when you are standing so 
A thousand ancestors whose cries are heard 
Through you, their perfect symbol. And the word 
That's you means all that lies behind, the flow, 
The turmoil of the hurrying times that grow 
Still where ancient memories have stirred. 

Some blind cell started it aeons ago 

And down the tide it rushed through years and years 

Partaking of a million creeds. I know! 

And now you stand and voice them half in tears. 

Girl, do not weep, but know your past and grow 

Lovely and great in countless future years. 



24 



Ill 



And I, too, am a product of that stream, 
That ancient, restless hurrying stream of time 
That carried through the centuries the grime 
Of ancient sins, the glory and the gleam 
Of daring deeds which now we dare not dream. 
And I am it. I am turning rhyme 
That cannot stop until the end of time. 
In me the past is murmuring its theme. 

Can we but be what now we know we must? 
And can we realize this theme, the Past's, 
Before we find our peace and turn to dust? 
Come let us live while life is sweet and lasts, 
Let's speak our message in a lyric cry 
That shall crash out through all eternity. 



25 



I heard a cook in an apron say, 
"What can you expect of Jim? 
His father worked in the streets by day. 
His mother drank all the wages away. 
What can you expect of him? 

"And Jim is rotten and not much good. 
He steals my flowers away. 
He took my tulips, red as blood. 
I saw him do it. Why he's no good ! 
I saw him slink away." 

I heard a cook in an apron say, 
"What can you expect of Jim? 
His father worked in the streets by day. 
His mother drank the wages away. 
The boy's the same — mark what I say. 
He steals my flowers most every day. 
What can you expect of him? 



26 



IV 
TELEOLOGY 

Was there, when the first amoebe stirred, a form 
That even hinted at your own? Was there a gleam 
That after a million years or more might seem 
To be like you ; — like you are when you storm, 
Like you are when your lips are ready to form 
Some scathing comment on a work or dream 
That I have done? I guess there must have been. 
There must have been some kind of gleam or form. 

Strange, isn't it, that you today are cause 
Of that amoebe's growth. That it but grew 
To realize its perfect form, in you. 
Strange, isn't it, that all the ancient laws, 
That all the past, have been, so that a few, 
Today, might learn their duty, girl, from you. 



27 



Eddying and swirling, to us the tide comes down. 

We are its symbols, if we wish, its end. 

The burden of vicissitude has bent 

My wishes as a gold-smith bends a crown. 

So let the weakened eddy swirl and drown 

Itself in us. Today I am content 

To think the past's great passion all was sent 

To find its end in us, and then die down. 

And yet we cannot stop. We must grow great. 

Because an awful past now speaks our fate, 

Because the awful crowding will not die 

We must go on into eternity. 

We must go on and on and shout our songs, 

And fight for life and kill, and do great wrongs. 



28 



Sometime they'll fade away into the distance, 

— The ones whom I have loved, — and I'll not care. 

And then my senses will be dulled and even pain will go 

And all my tortured being will find rest 

And a great loneliness. 

Perhaps I'll feel a hand laid on my head 

— Cool and rough — so like a father's hand, 

And a deep voice, half muffled in a beard will say — 

"There, there, boy, rest . . 

There . . . there . . . boy . . . rest." 



29 



VI 



You are, girl, what I make you; and to you 
I am not I alone but something more. 
I am so much of you that came before 
This moment, all the sickening griefs that drew 
Your heart strings tight, I am the joy of you. 
I am your laughter, and I am the roar 
Some ancestor of yours gave on a shore 
Craggy and gray beside a lake of blue. 

And you to me are just what lies behind 
This fleshly symbol that the world calls me. 
I build you out of it. Line by line 
You grow out of the chaos that I find. 
Until in your dear face, well can I see 
The glory of the thing I ought to be. 



30 



VII 

I sometimes wish that we two could but be 
Accidents in the wide space afloat 
With no more duty then the vagrant mote 
That dances in the sunbeam, merrily. 
I sometimes wish that we two could but be 
Thoughtless and unconcious like the note 
That trembles in the wild bird's throat 
Lovely it its thoughtless ecstacy. 

And yet we're pulled this way and that, and fight 
The things we know that we must do, because, 
— Forsooth — it was so written in the laws. 
Oh let's submit, and let's give fate the right 
To pull us like the mountebank who draws 
The puppets for the onlookers' applause. 



31 



VIII 

And yet there is no audience to see 
Our dancing, or applaud our mock despair, 
Or weep with us. There is none who will care 
What dramas fate will play with you and me. 

I once looked in a microscope to see 
How living things in drops of water fare 
And saw them struggling for existence, there. 
Girl, their great fight suggested you and me. 

There is serenity and peace, dear girl, 
Above the world. High through the liquid blue 
We might look down and see the clouds uncurl 
Above this half-formed drop ; and see a few 
High peaks, perhaps, rise silent and a-gleam. 
From there our struggles would look like a dream. 



32 



IX 



Far away melodies wander through my head, 
Sung by great poets who are long since dead. 
Oh, those promethean spirits who brought light 
To man have now forever taken flight. 
Their lonely bodies now lie buried 
Within a million dusty books — unread. 
No more will their sweet verses come to sight 
Nor chant themselves on lovers' lips by night. 

And yet they did sing once in ecstacy 

And gave their beauty to the next, to see. 

The next then passed it on; and so there grew 

Through the desuetude of time, beauty 

And great heritage for me and you 

Which we must pass to hands and singers new. 



33 



X 



Our heritage is greater than we know, 

And we must bear it like to warriors bold. 

Beauty it has and fevers of the soul, 

And fears, brought by tempestuous winds that blow 

From rocky crags, half covered by the snow 

Of countless years. And though we're very cold 

We'll not stop till the causal chain has told 

Our every step the place where it must go. 

Gladly we'll live, and though the flesh may shrink 
We'll fight it till we've reached our ending place. 
There, leave our cup of beauty where may drink 
New lips and pass it on. We'll not debase 
Our heritage, and girl, we will not shrink 
Though peace may pass us in his sordid haste. 



34 



XI 



I think for us there is a paradise 

Locked in the dark recesses of the mind, 

Where, when we wish, we two may turn to find 

Colours, long dead to other lesser eyes; 

And beauty, smiling at us in surprise; 

And mad-cap rhythms with fine thoughts combined; 

And poets, laughing ; wisdom, old and blind. 

And all our books will be in paradise ! 

Though to that haven, girl, we'll go alone, 
We'll not stay very long. We'll hear the moan 
Of winter seas, and hear the stifled cries 
Of those who cannot enter paradise. 
And then we'll leave it for a little space 
And walk out in the world to give men grace. 



35 



XII 

I've wearied you. Your shining eyes have closed 
And you sleep quietly and unaware 
That I am holding you, and that your hair 
Is lovely where the pastel moonlight flows. 
You do not know what mighty doubts were those 
That now assailed me, and you cannot care. 
Yes, you are lovely so. Sleep well, there, there. 
Lying so quietly your beauty grows. 

The past has whirled you down to me, and so 
I'll keep you safe where all my fancies grow. 
Locked in my paradise of changing dreams 
Where everything that was now lives and seems 
Eternal. There the last year's saintly snow 
Mingles with the first spring flowers that blow. 



36 



SPRING FRAGMENTS 

I 

The wind that melts the winter snow 

Has blown the bare trees all night long, 

And I who heard it all night know 

How frail our love was, yet how strong . , 

Oh, our young dreams of happiness 

That grew like fresh primroses grow 

Must die with the touch of the first warm gust 

That kisses and melts the winter snow. 



II 



There is a whisper on the hill 

As the wind strikes the fir trees far away 

There is a roaring in the street 

As it strikes my oak at break of day . . 



37 



Ill 



Soon will the earth be green again, 
And the birds will sing in our oak tree. 
And you will be longing for other men, 
For other loves I must be free . . . 
But I am sorry our love is dead: 
And I am longing for you today, 
And sick with old imaginings. 



IV 



There is a whisper on the hill 

As the wind strikes the fir trees far away. 

There is a roaring in the street 

As it strikes my oak at break of day. 



38 



THE RIDER 

I straddle the back of each spirit who flies 
Forever pursuing eternities. 
Their wings blow over me cooling breezes, 
And the earth beneath us foams and freezes. 
I know no changes in seasons or souls, 
For lo, I fly whilst the old earth rolls, 
And I am laughter, laughter! 
And I am laughter, laughter! 

There is a mother who starves for bread. 

There is a maiden whose lover is dead. 

There is a God whose priests are flown. 

There is a poet who sings alone. 

But my song ever goes lilting down, 

Through marsh-grass and heather, through farm-house and 

town, 
For I am laughter, laughter. 
Oh ... I am laughter, laughter. 



39 



I watch the men in their revelries, 
As they praise each self that Devil is. 
I watch the funeral and the feast. 
I watch the greatest and the least. 
Nor heed the king nor the peasant, I 
Bestride them all and onward fly, 
I, who am laughter, laughter, 
I, who am laughter, laughter. 

Sometimes my lips are drawn with pain 

As I see the world swing again and again 

The cycle of vices that never are dead. 

They would move me to tears, but strangely instead 

They call swift to my lips the shrill wild cry 

As I fly on to eternity, 

Of laughter, laughter, laughter, 

Of laughter . . . laughter. 



40 



TWO SONGS FROM "THE YEAR". 

I 

The Spirits of Spring are mad tonight. 
They dance in drunken delirium of grief 
Out of the shadows, and into the light 
That the new moon makes before the leaf 
Of the poplar tree has left its sheath. 

They dance and sing their wide wild song 
That falls to the valleys, and echoes along 
The new-born twigs of the willow tree, 
Caressing them, kissing them, tearfully. 

With unkempt hair and naked breasts, 
With mouths agape, they dance and sing 
A dirge . . . 

And one has left her fellows, there, 

By the gnarled oak where we loved to wait 

Till the moon would shine through the shimmerng air. 

She weeps by the gnarled oak where we sat, 

My head in your lap, your hair undone, 

Around your face like an aureole 

Or like a gleaming crown. 



41 



II. 



Our love is dead. Our love is dead. 

The rain as it fell on my window said all night 

Our love, our love is dead. 

All night I lay upon my bed 

And heard the rain as it fell and said 

Our love is dead. Our love is dead. 

And now it is still. A little red 

Begins to show in the east, but I hear 

Only the song of the rain that said, 

As it beat on the window, here by my bed, 

Our love, our love is dead. 



42 



ACADEMIC FIGURES 
Exercises in Impudence 



43 



THE PROFESSORS 

Strange, shoddy men play chess with words up there, 

Upon the hill, and think their game is life. 

They think their little squared-off board reflects, 

Upon its white and black, the aspirations 

And the passions of the world. They think they've found 

In their poor dusty studies, patterns for men 

To live by. And they cannot understand 

Youth's strange irreverence and wondering. 

Sometime they'll die, 
And never having lived, they'll go to heaven 
And play with words eternally. 



44 



THE POET PROFESSOR 

He is a delicate soul — short and dark. ' 
He likes the co-eds, and he reads to them 
From his own poetry, and thrills them all 
Beneath their corsets, where their hearts should be. 
He always writes about flowers and the sky-lark, 
Though I'm sure he's never seen either one. 
He wears a dress suit admirably, except, 
His legs are slightly bowed. 

I know that HE 
Will enter heaven because he is so modest, 
And so meek. One time I said to him, 
' I think you are the greatest living poet." 
And he smiled. 



45 



THE RHETORICIAN 

He has a barrel full of lectures 
and he reads from them, three times a week. 
They are kept in little folders yellow with age, 
and are neatly punctuated with stale jokes. 

It flatters him to have the students laugh, 

and so, like an old hen watching her young chicks, 

head cocked to one side, clucking, 

he watches them attentively 

to see if any ever miss the joke. 

Thy never do. 

They all laugh loud. 

That's why he calls them an intelligent class. 

The ones that laugh loudest 

get the best marks 

always. 

He has published some lectures in a book. 

He makes you buy it for his class. 

And every book he sells brings him a quarter. 

And all his friends make all their classes buy his books. 

And so he's making money. 



46 



When he reads the lectures from his barrel 
he does it with a pencil in his hand, 
and punctuates each sentence carefully. 
He tries them out on all his classes, 
and if they laugh on time he publishes 
and makes more money. 

I sometimes wonder how many quarts of ink it takes 
To fill a barrel full of lectures. 



47 



THE AESTHETICIAN 

He is still young, 

and yet I think his mind is shriveled up. 

They say he's very brilliant 

so THEY all hate him 

enormously. 

He lectures to his classes 

In delicate periods and graceful lines. 

He has said the same thing over for five years, 

always in delicate periods, and graceful lines; 

and his eyes are glassy, 

and his glasses have grown fast upon his head. 

He walks up hill in the morning 
and down hill at night 
with precise little steps, 
carrying a green Harvard bag. 
He never smiles at any one. 
and his gestures are langorous 
As though his soul were sleeping. 



48 



I sometimes think he might have been a poet 

before his mind began to shrivel up, 

and he might have said fine things, finely. 

But once he told THEM they were fossils 

And so THEY never raised his pay for him, 

and he got mad. 

He stopped writing 

delicate phrases and graceful lines 

Until he had forgotten how. 

Then he grew learned and began to repeat 

the wise things he had said when he was young. 

He will repeat them till he dies. 

Then his house-keeper will find them 

and burn them up. 

Sometimes a word recalls something that happened 

when he wrote it. 

His lips grow stiff 

as though they are trying to smile, 

but can't. 

Then he thinks, 

as ne reads to his class, 

how foolish he was 

before he grew learned. 

And he wishes they'd raise his pay. 



49 



DR. JEREMIAH QUIGGS 



sol 



us 



As I was walking this afternoon, 

I met a man dancing in dusty shoon, 

With arms thrown out and head thrown back, 

In dirty torn breeches and an old red mack, 

He Was stepping and treading a jig. I said, 

"Why do you dance in the public way 

Don't you know 'twill really affect your blood. 

Don't you know it's a very unseemly way 

To spend an autumn holiday. 

Dancing and dancing in dirty torn breeches, 

With arms thrown out and head thrown back?" 

"Hush, hush", he said, "or the birds'll hear you. 

"Hush, hush", he said, and he danced away. 

I wondered much as I saw him go, 

If he really were crazy or acted so 

Because this creature was possessed 

Of some secret of nature's the world hadn't guessed. 



50 



I followed him a little space 

And saw that he danced with an awkward grace, 

Like a scare-crow which by necromancing 

Someone had suddenly set a-dancing. 

Then he turned as though he had read my thought, 

And said, "Life is a dance of strange steps wrought. 

I leave, as I pass my marks in the dust, 

But the world obscures them with greed and distrust. 

For my breeches are old and dirty and torn, 

And my coat, alas, my coat is worn. 

But don't let them know", he solemnly said 

as he danced away, and nodded his head. 

But when I heard this preposterous thing, 
I knew he was crazy and maundering. 
And then I knew — if I'd ever doubted — 
That things worth while must always be 
Found in a great university; 
And that this knave who so openly flouted 
His rags and his dance and his mackinaw red 
Was only a fool, whose trouble had crowded 
All rhyme and reason out of his head. 



51 



"SUNSET POINT" 

"And in the flower month, I'll leave," I said, 
"And may not come again upon this hill 
To touch your hand, and see the mists rise still 
Like love-thoughts from the valley." And I said, 
"The years will pass, and many will be dead 
That, like us, love to count the stars. The still 
Cold hand of loneliness will touch, and fill 
Our hearts with longings that we won't forget." 

Your face, thrown back, shone white beneath your hair. 

Your lips, half opened, did not move. A pool 

Of night lay in the valley, black and cool: 

While we stood still like chiseled marble, there, 

Upon the hills the mists made violet: 

And when I kissed your eyes, my lips were wet! 



52 



A SONNET TO FREE RHYTHM 

I hate the sonnet for its pretty grace; 
Its mincing steps; its conscious sought out rhymes; 
Its theme worked over many, many times; 
And in the hearts of men, its noble place. 

I hate the deadening value of each phrase ; 
The words all explicit, the ancient chimes, 
Those hackneyed terms that form the five-fold rhymes 
— The way octave and sestette each embrace. 

But give me measures torn from roaring seas, 
In passion mighty, and in thought sublime; 
Not useless baubles done in verse like these: 

But where, like thunder after lightning flash, 
In tales of nations' wars, rhyme follows rhyme, 
And rhythms, like the storm seas, sob and clash. 



53 



NIGHT 

Adventure called us so we left the town. 
We met Night on the top of some high hill 
That rises up to kiss the stars. So still 
She was we scarcely heard her breathe. Her gown 
Was black and fell in graceful folds adown 
Her slender form. But her dark eyes would fill 
With longing when she saw our joy until 
We, too, were silent, for we feared her frown. 

And so we put our arms around her, laid 
Our heads upon her breast, to comfort her, 
And then to ease her widow-hood we wept 
While in the vale a vagrant night-wind played 
And brought her perfumed kisses from the fir. 
Until, in our two longing arms, she slept. 



54 



OCTOBER 

Gladly we laughed and walked in the sun by the lake, 
Eyes clear, hearts firm, while the fall mists swirled through the 

trees 
Covered and bright with the gold that a laughing breeze 
Pulled down and strewed on the ground. We were ready to 

make 
Life joy, this morning; to laugh for the sake 
Of this joyous, half-clothed world, while the seas 
Were beating our blood into nameless ecstacies. 
So glad we were we did not need to speak 
And found ourselves in silence. 

Then, afraid, 
You slipped away like, an empty thought, 
And left me there, alone. 



65 



THE RETURN 

You still come back to me, dear, 
In the quiet gray of the evening, 
Or in the early morning 
When the world is fresh still, 
And pure winds blow from the east. 

Sometimes when I sit at my window, 

Thinking of nothing, or of much, 

Then it is that the odor of roses 

Or of heavy headed chrysanthema, 

Or of the bitter spring sap, 

Slips in through my window. 

Then, quick, you are before me. 

Your hands are on my eyes that burn, 

On my forehead that throbs, 

On my heart that beats too slowly now, 

That you are gone. 

Sometimes it is a voice in the street, 
Or a rustling in my rooms, 
And I think . . . 
That you . 
Are here! 

Then life and the world begin again, 

And I go on . . . and on . . . and ON. 



56 



A TRIANGLE 

The Man says : 

Come to the window. Here let us sit 

Looking out across the lake. 

Just be still a little bit, 

Just a bit for our friends sake! 

Once you loved him very well 

Before you ran away with me. 

Yes, I know the things you tell, 

But he was my friend . . . you see? 

I know that it was right for you 

To come out here and start anew. 

— Hear those birds cry in the trees — 

— There's cold weather in that breeze — . 

Yes, I know that it was right. 
Yet my heart still aches for him, 
And dreaming wildly yesternight 
I saw his eyes so hurt so grim, 
And saw a devil watching him! 



57 



— Just be still a moment more. 
God, you choke me with your kisses! 
If he should enter through that door, 
I'd give him all the peace he misses. 

All the peace, and you, and more, 
More than he had had before. 
I'd put the sun back in his skies, 
And start the laughter in his eyes! 

He will not come, be still, be still. 
He will not come, nor ever will! 

But the woman has been thinking: 

One and one and one make three. 
Three young men are loving me. 
And then perhaps I'll get one more, 
So, praise God, I shall have four. 
Four young men to come in turn 
And tell me how my kisses burn. 
Oh me, oh my! The sun's so bright 
There'll be a new moon out tonight. 

•jl pp •£ 

Why 'do they all struggle so? 

— I love to feel him touch my hair 

Love must come and, . . . love must go ! 

— What of Tommy / don't care ! 

Oh me, oh my, the sun's so bright. 

Will there be a moon tonight? 



58 



AUTUMN FANCY 

The huge and shapeless hill 
With up-turned face 
A-dreaming lies; 
While the stars, 
Playful in roguery 
Wink at her; 
And the smart North-wind 
Tangles the yellowed reeds, 
Her matted hair. 

But heeding th*m not, 
A-dreaming she lies 
Thinking of her love, 
The sensuous sea, 
Of his sullen thunder 
When he is angry, 
And his lascivious whisper 
In the dark. 

But hush! There is scandal abroad! 

The big breasted hill is pregnant with the autumn grain ! 

And the sea has heard, and will none of her. 

In austere amazement 
He freezes into silence 
In the night. 



59 



REVOLUTIONARY HYMN 

The crowds have been dispersed and the leaders arrested. 
It is understood that stringent action will be brought against 
them. — Newspaper Clipping. 

We are the searchers for freedom. 
We are the bold ones, wrung 

From the spots where society rots, 
Where injustice sings of Christian things. 
We are the bold and the young. 

We are the searchers for freedom. 

We are the damned and accursed 

By the rulers who rule the puppy and fool 
By those who sell souls for ill-gotten gold. 

Oh we are the damned and accursed. 

We are the searchers for freedom. 

And sometime the sun will rise 

On a world that is freed from injustice and greed 
On dreams that are pure and hearts that are sure, 

On smiles that will sit in men's eyes. 



60 



THE SONG OF DEATH 

/ heard an Old Man say: 

"Why death is in the trenches!" 
Death to the young man, fighting in the trenches 
Is but a fever of the proud young flesh. 
It will come quickly, like discovered beauty, 
Taking the soul of him while its strength is fresh. 

Taking the soul of him. 

Dancing it away from him 

Proudly commending him 

While his strength is fresh. 

Death to an old man living in his memories 

Is like an enemy, familiar and yet feared. 

Grasping at his white hairs it will break the back of him 

It will drink the soul of him and fumble round his beard. 

It will drink the soul of him 

Like a draught of whisky 

Taking his memories 

From his old white beard. 



61 



Death to a young girl looking in the mirror 

Is like a lover with an awesome grace 

It will kiss the lips of her, respectfully and tenderly 

Stroking the blushes from her fair young face. 

It will kiss the lips of her 

Respectfully and tearfully 

It will brush the blushes 

From her fair young face. 

Death to the minister, the mayor and the alderman 
Comes without notice to hasten them away. 
Awkwardly they'll jig to him begging him to leave them 
Here to fix their reputations up for one more day. 

He'll yank them along with him, 

Mayor and fat alderman 

They'll dance to the tune of 

His clanking bones. 



62 



I think death is dancing, here before my window pane, 
Hopping down the street, with his courtiers behind. 
Youth goes with a glad cry, the young girls go silently. 
The ministers protest with him, but age has a quiet mind. 

Death leads them round and round again 

The pretty grewsome crowd of them 

Youth follows gladly 

And age with a quiet mind. 



63 



MONOTONES 

I 

I know you've gone away to find 
More happiness than I could give 
I know we felt we'd better live 
Alone, apart, in quiet kind 

And yet 
I saw your face in a child's face 

This morning. 
I saw your grace in a reed's grace 

This noon. 
I saw your hair in the sun's hair 

This evening. 
I feel your lips in the wind's lips, 

Tonight. 



64 



II 



There was no music, only sound. 
The notes fell out like crippled things 
And writhed upon the floor. 
There was no magic in her touch, 
No mystery, no passion in her hands, 

And yet 
I heard your song in that dead song as she played it. 
I heard your touch in the piano that she beat. 
I felt your call in the music as she made it. 
I felt you here in the room where we sat. 



65 



Ill 

I would not want you back again 

Unless we could live all alone. 

I would not have him hurt again, 

And yet I call you up each time 

I see the lace-work of the tree tops on the rose-sky. 

I hear the shrill cry of the wild duck on the lake. 

I wish you back here when the mists swirl in the morning. 

I wish you back here when my heart breaks ... at night. 



66 



If looks could kill, then surely you 

Had long since killed me with your eyes. 

If words could burn and sear like fire, 
Sure then, my death was your desire. 

But while quick hands can still my pain, 
I know you'll bring me life again. 



AFTER THE STORM 

When we are dead, they'll wrap us both 
In a canvas shroud and bury us, 
And there securely we shall lie, 
So warm, so close, so quietly. 

When we rest there, we will not think 
Of all the things that trouble us, 
Nor quarrel hours away, nor weep ; 
In quietness we'll rest and sleep. 

We'll hear the lovely father bird 
Sing as he watches by the nest. 
We'll hear the grasses at our feet 
Whisper in peace and quietness. 

When we are dead they'll wrap us both 
Securely in a canvas shroud; 
And there — so warm and close — we'll be 
Lovers in eternity. 



68 



TRUTH IS BEAUTY . . . ? 
(To be read in a rather flat and matter of fact voice.) 

I 

Your note came, and I opened it and read : 
"I will be married on the thirtieth : 
Wish me God speed, forget what I have said, 
And burn my other notes to you." I smiled, 
And did not burn them, for I thought: 
"She is a silly girl, and yet one ought 
To keep these sentimental tokens. They 
Will help recall her at a later day." 

Your note came, and I opened it and read : 
"My son is bora and I have named him 
After you. Give him and me your blessing." 
I did not answer, but I found instead 
In some old volume I had read, this line, 
"Great is God's love and good is his design." 

Your note came, and I opened it and read : 
"Oh God how miserable I am. 
Come help me, for I need you so." 
It was at breakfast that I read it, 
But I had some reports to edit, 
So I misplaced and lost your note, 
And turned back to my reading. 

69 



II 



A row of books above my bed. 
A pile of books beneath my feet. 
I've countless volumes in my head. 
I've books to read and books to eat. 
They kill me with their vacant faces, 
They lead me into dirty places, 
They eat my life, my heart, my soul. . 

Ill 

A last note came, and there I read 
That by your own hand you were dead. 
And so I wrote some verse for you, 
And sold it to a New Review 
That likes this modern rhyming. 
And since I write the things I feel, 
I bought myself a good square meal. 



70 



THREE FRAGMENTS 

I 

- 

You have closed the shutters of your heart against me. 
And I must wait cold, in the rain here, and alone. 
The rain is touching my face with its fingers. 
And above me, in the branches of the trees, 
Sway dead thoughts of a passion. 



II 



Your love is a delicate thing 
Like a lyric song, half sung, 
That trembles upon your red, red lips. 

Your love is a delicate thing 
Like the laughter of a child 
That plays at noon in the hot, hot sun. 

Oh your love is a delicate, delicate, delicate thing! 



71 



Ill 

You have sent me a bit of Erika, 
And I hold it to my lips 
And kiss it wondering. 

You have sent me your love. 

And my soul kneels before it, 

Singing prayers of old times, 

Old passionate Eddie prayers 

That the Teuton Gods stole from the hills 

And from the crystal sweetness of the seas; 

Singing prayers that the Teuton Gods 

Shouted in their big red beards 

In naive piety. 



72 



TRANSLATIONS AND IMITATIONS 



73 



THE ASRA 

Daily walked the wondrous lovely 
Sultan's daughter, slowly, slowly, 
By the fountain in the evening 
Where the pure white waters whisper. 

Daily stood the fair young slave boy 
By the fountain in the evening, 
Where the pure white waters whisper, 
Daily he grew pale and paler. 

And one evening came the princess 
Towards him with these hurried questions: 
"I must know thy name, boy, quickly, 
And thy home-land, and thy lineage." 

And the slave boy said, "My name is 

Mohamed, I come from Yemmen, 

And my line — they are those Asra 

Who must die when love has touched them." 

Heinrich Heine. 



74 



The linden-tree blossomed to the nightingale's song. 
The sun smiled happily out of the west. 
You kissed me that day and your kisses were long 
While you pressed me tight to your swelling breast. 

The leaves fell down to the raven's harsh cry. 
The sun was frowning with peevish brow. 
Coldly we said to each other, "good-by". 
And politely you bowed the politest bow. 

Heinrich Heine. 



75 



You pretty fishermaiden 
Paddle your boat to land. 
Come to me, sit down beside me 
We'll spoon here hand in hand. 

Let your head rest on my heart, dear, 
And don't be afraid of me. 
You trust yourself without worry 
Each day upon the sea. 

My heart is like the sea, dear, 
Has flood and ebb and storm. 
And many a pretty pearl, dear, 
In it is taking form. 

Heinrich Heine. 



76 



HYMN 
I am the sword. I am the flame. 

I have lighted you in the darkness, and when the fight be- 
gan I fought among the first in the front rank. 

Around and about me are lying the corpses of my friends, 
but we have conquered. We have conquered and round about 
me lie the corpses of my friends. Through the whooping tri- 
umph dytharambics are intoned the chorals of the funeral feast. 
But we have time for neither joy nor sorrow. Again roll the 
drums. Up, up to a new battle. 

I am the sword. I am the flame. 



77 



LET GO 

The day is in love with the night, 
The spring-time with the winter, 
And life is in love with death 
And you too, . . . you love me! 

You love me — already grasp you 
The terrible shadows that hold. 
And your bloom fades, 
And your soul is bleeding. 

Let go of me and only love 

The lively butterflies 

That hover there in the summer light 

Let go of me . . . and of anguish. 

Heinrich Heine. 



78 



WISWAMITRA 

The poor king Wiswamitra 
Has no time for resting, now. 
He wants, by lighting and penance 
To win Wasischta's cow. 

Oh poor king Wiswamitra 
Oh what an ox art thou 
To fight so much and to suffer, 
And all for a single cow. 

Heinrich Heine. 



HEIMKEHR 

Man, stop sneering at the devil 
For your span of life is brief 
And eternal soul damnation 
Is not only the mob's belief. 

Man, pay up your obligations. 
For your span of life is long. 
And you'll have to borrow often 
Still, before your life is done. 

Heinrich Heine. 



79 



OVER THE MOOR-LAND 

Over the moor-land thunders my tread, 
Dull from the fallows the echo comes dead. 

Autumn has come and the spring days have passed — 
And once I dreamed that their glory could last! 

Threatening fog clouds hover around, 
Bare are the heavens, black is the ground. 

Had I only not walked here once in the May ! 
Living and loving passed quickly away. 

Theodor Storm. 



80 



KUNSTLERGESANG 

Lerne dich zugeln, 

Du wildes Herz! 

Aus dem Kelche 

des menschlichen Schmerzens 

trinke tief, 

Dich ewig kraftigend. 

Dort auf dem Berge 
glanzet die Sonne. 
Doch drunten iA Thale. 
traumen die Schatten 
der dunkelen Menschheit 
der^en Leiter Du bist. 

Vn »^,^ riM([) Mltlllllihll1 . n 

In Deiner Seele 
brausen gewaltig 
die Stiirme des Guten. 
Lerne sie leiten. 





81 



Gliicklich der Mensch der die Seele beherrschet. 
Denn ihm allein ist gelungen sein Leben v 
Denn ihm allein gedeihet die Pflanze 
die er gepfleget im Garten der Schonheit. 
Mur ihm unter Menschen wachst sie zur Bliite 
stille den Gottern Weihrauch aufspendend. 
Tief in der Seele dein 
klingen die Tone 
des ewigen Schonen. 

Du der der Gotter gleich, 
Du der die Venus Kennst, 
Dichter und Schaffer, 
Beherrsche sie ewig. 



82 



WELTSCHMERZ 

Mein Geist ist miide, doch die Tranen 
Die die Seele sucht — sie kommen nicht, 
Und kiihlen nicht die Wangen die so brennen. 
Und ein Verlangen, bitter, unaussprechlich, 
Er zehret still in meinem oden Herzen. 

Und ihr, ihr Abendwinde die vom Norden wehn, 
Die mir so gross und rein entgegengleiten, 
Kommt ihr auch jetzt von jenen Hbhn, 
Dort wo als Knabe mir die lauten Weisen klangen. 

Es ist rnir dumf in dieser grossen Welt 
Wo Bachlein platchern, und wo Rosen bluhn, 
Und wo am Abend, an dem Himmelszelt 
Die Sternlein schalkhaft, grinsend gliihn. 



83 



Hier nur im Sumpfe wo die Schilfe stehn, 

Eintonig wehn, und beugen bang die Haupter, 

Und wimmern diistere Murmellaute, flehn 

Dem Himmel an ; hier wo Geruch von Krauter 

Mich ganz umgibt, wo schwarze Wasser locken, 

In dunkelen Hohlen tief, wo Schlangen sterben, ach, und 

keimen, 
Nur hier ist meine Seele frei von Schrecken, 
Denn hier nur, kann ich lachen grell, und weinen. 



84 



TRUTH. 

JANUARY 20, 1915. 

Oh God, I'm glad I came to you tonight 

And left that fact-sick crowd, that mouthed their words, 

And poked inquisitive fingers in the bright, 

The gold, bright mouths of marigolds to find the "grain" 

Of truth. A nausea fills me when I think of it! 

Your hair was soft and brushed my face tonight. 
Your body clung to mine, we heard the snow 
Drip from the roof, and saw the white mists blow 
In through the opened window where we stood 
Smelling the night air ... spring air ... and the 

wood 
That comes to life again in clean, spring nights. 



85 



And left them with their marigolds, grown 
In some fetid hot-house; breathed on, blown 
By no spring wind, nor lusty sun 
Fresh from its Carribean baths. . . 

A fresh night air, and warm, 

With mists to hide the world that will be bare 

When all the snows are gone, blew from the south. 

And you in white stood still beside the window, 

Your lips half opened waiting mine. 

While in that hell they sat 

And tested well their concepts, percepts, 

And their hot-house plant. 



86 



TWILIGHT OF THE GODS 
I 

High up in the heavens 

surrounded by stars 

that comfort him tenderly, 

sits the Good Lord 

weeping 

bitterly. 

Man has dethroned him, 

as he dethroned the old Gods. 

So God must leave his Halls of Heaven 

and take with him the gentle Mary, 

and the Apostles twelve, 

and the saints 

that men killed for him. 

But he must leave the stars, 

those dainty courtiers, 

that are so sad in their delicate robes 

of gold and blue and green. 

And he must wrap his heavy mantle around him, 

and stride out into blackness; 

even as those other Gods, 

those great, nude Gods of Hellas, 

proudly, scornfully 

strode out 

two thousand year ago. 

87 



II 



The Halls of Heaven are cold again. 

their gaudy gold, 

their profusion of red cloth, 

and the barbarians' baubles 

that hide a silent grandeur, 

are filled with dust 

and decay. 

So now they dream, 

those silent halls, 

of happy other times ; 

of banquets, 

and of high and passionate loves 

of high and passionate Gods; 

when great Jove laughed 

and thrilled them with sweet ecstacy. 



88 



Ill 



But out in the darkness, 

lonely, alone, 

wander the great Gods, 

dethroned and dethroner. 

The gentle Mary, 

becomes weary of wandering, 

and puts her head on our dear Lord's shoulder, 

and weeps. 

While in the darkness 

a little wind sobs, 

and is silent again, 

in sympathy. 

But the big Greek Gods see her weeping. 
They turn half away 
and laugh 
scornfully. 



89 



INCIDENTS OF THE FLOOD 
I 

The Fiance. 

I say she let me put her in the boat. 

She saw me trying to get in, and fail. 

The last I saw of her was a piece of throat, 

Stretched out across the side ... all white and pale 

And dead-like. Say, and slow she was, a snail! 

She could have helped me, if she'd wished, I say. 

She never mentioned me — dead as a nail — 

Up at the rescue station. She liked that frail 

And mushy drummer. She never loved me anyway. 



90 



THE ANGEL 

He sunk. I didn't quite know what to do — 

And I was awfully sorry, but you see 

It wouldn't do much good to sit and stew. 

Of course he was a-going to marry me! 

I didn't quite know what to do . . .1 see 

They needed me up on the hill, and so 

I did what work I could. I see they liked me ; 

So I pretended that I didn't know. 

Why fuss? I just pretended that I didn't know 



91 



THE HABERDASHER'S CLERK 

She used to put her hand upon my head. 
It wasn't pretty but it held my heart. 
And then I wished her lover might be dead, 
And I'd get well and we would never part. 
But when I heard about him . . . well the start 
Of hope it gave me took my strength away, 
For then I saw how truly big her heart 
To hide her grief from us, day after day 
And work with us . . . She kissed me when I passed 
away. 



92 



THE CIGAR SALESMAN 

Say, let me tell you, bo, there was a dame 

Down there at Dayton in the flood with grit! 

We called her Angel, cause that was her name 

An cause she was an Angel. Now don't fergit 

I'm not a churchman, not just yit — 

But if there is such things as heaven, I know 

One dame that's walkin there. She made a hit 

With me all right. An if they'd let her go — 

She worked too God dam hard — A little flat, eh, bo? 



93 



THE OLD DOCTOR 

Her strength came from her father's side. I mean 

Those Angels were a very sturdy race. 

But her control was great as I have seen. 

It was a very puzzling thing; perhaps some phase 

Of an hysteria . . . And yet her face 

Was strangly calm . . . her bearing too. I guess, 

Perhaps it was some hidden grace 

Of spiritual feeling sent to bless 

Such souls. Oh yes, we doctors see that, more or less. 



94 



YALE '13 

She wasn't much to look at — I should say 

A girl of twenty five, heavy of build, 

With tawny hair and eyes of washed out gray. 

But she had a grace and calmness that quite filled 

Us with surprise. Her lover had been killed, 

She knew it all the time but never told 

A one of us, just worked there sweet and still 

And made us glad to have a chance to hold 

Her hand a second. Jove — her heart was purest gold. 



95 



J9 



